


Half-time

by Lobelia321



Category: Football - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-02
Updated: 2011-03-02
Packaged: 2017-10-16 01:46:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/167095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lobelia321/pseuds/Lobelia321
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cristiano Ronaldo, in his hotel room in Germany, turned over onto his stomach, his fists trapped against his belly, and <br/>tried not to think of Kaká.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Half-time

This story contains adult content of a sexual  
nature. Do not read if you are under the age of 18. Please also  
note that this website's [Terms of Use ](index.html)apply  
to you, even if you choose not to read them.

 

Title: Half-time  
Author: Lobelia  
Fandom: Football  
Pairing: Cristiano Ronaldo dos Santos Aveiro / Ricardo Izecson  
dos Santos Leite (aka Kaká)  
Rating: 18 (US rating: NC-17)  
Length: c. 6,000 words  
Archive: Beautiful Games, My niche  
Feedback: Yes, please! Even if it is only one line -- one word,  
even!  
Disclaimer: I do not know these people. This is a piece of amateur  
fiction. None of this ever happened. I am making no money.  
Summary: Cristiano Ronaldo, in his hotel room in Germany, turned  
over onto his stomach, his fists trapped against his belly, and  
tried not to think of Kaká.  
Author Notes: Set during the World Cup 2006, between the Portugal/Netherlands  
and the Portugal/England games. Written before the Portugal/England  
game. Thanks to everyone who encouraged the writing of this fic.  
:-) Pics and notes on canon resources used at the end.

 

 **  
Half-time  
by Lobelia  
**

By Thursday, Cristiano Ronaldo had exhausted  
all the possibilities his hotel had to offer.

He had: played billiards, swum in the pool,  
sat in the dry sauna, sat in the wet sauna, worked out in the  
gym (but only lightly, very lightly! 'Don't move that leg more  
than you have to. An hour's massage twice a day.'), hung out in  
the communal rooms, hung out on the deckchairs, trotted back to  
his room.

In his room, he had: washed his hair, dried  
his hair with the dryer provided, gelled his hair, gone to the  
loo, operated the remote-control blinds, opened and shut the drawers,  
looked under the bed (no monsters today, not like the horned grooblies  
hiding under his bunk, gnashing their teeth in time with the waves  
rolling into the bay of Funchal).

He'd rung people, he'd been rung. He'd changed  
the ring tone on his phone.

He'd done press-ups on the tufted hotel  
room carpet, then push-ups, then sit-ups, then leg lifts, then  
stopped because he'd been told not to over-exercise.

He'd fiddled with the playlists on his ipod.

He'd have liked to go out on the town, at  
least just for a bit, but he could see the mob of fans from his  
window; he'd never make it past the fenced-in grounds.

He'd drunk one tiny bottle from the mini-bar  
but then stopped for fear of losing even more of his match fitness.

He'd zapped through all of the channels  
on the wall-mounted flat-screen TV, two-thirds of which were incomprehensible  
to him and half of which showed nothing but interviews with colleagues,  
shots of excited fans and endless replays of goals.

He'd looked at the porn channels of which  
there seemed to be a perverse amount in Germany. Mostly, he looked  
at them in the afternoon, during siesta time, when he was drowsiest  
and most easily bored.

In the middle of some moça moaning  
'oh yes, harder', he got up to catch a stray fly in his hollow  
hand, and he fed it to the spider in the ceiling corner, balancing  
on the edge of the bed with one hand on the wall. The fly struggled  
and buzzed, the spider pounced.

He lay back down, supine on the made king-size  
bed, his head drowning in the immense cushions, white and soft  
as clouds. He was wearing boxer shorts and socks and the bead  
necklace from Machico and an elasticated bandage around his upper  
thigh; he had his hands crossed behind his head and stared at  
the spider, its web fluttering in the stream of air from the air  
con.

He turned over onto his stomach, his fists  
trapped against his belly, and tried not to think of Kaká.

The attempt was phenomenally unsuccessful.

 

 

He hadn't actually met Kaká in the  
flesh since the friendly in April. And then at that fateful game  
against AC Milan when Man United had lost by a goal and he, Cristiano,  
had burst into tears.

He always burst into tears when his side  
lost.

This was in March, over a year ago. He'd  
been kneeling on the side line where he'd dropped when the whistle  
went. His face crumpled as if of its own volition. Everyone milled  
around, hands ruffled his hair, hands patted his back. Roy sat  
in goal and looked shell-shocked. The crowd's roar was distant  
surf. Cristiano's earring hurt, his leg hurt, the grass was bent  
and squashed.

Somewhere, in the left corner of his vision,  
the other team was falling on top of each other in celebration.

And at some point, Kaká had come  
over.

"Hi, mate," he'd said, and he'd  
said it in Portuguese, not in English.

He was smiling all over his face. He was  
glutted with success. He looked flushed, mussed and spectacularly  
happy.

Cristiano didn't think he'd ever seen anyone  
look so purely happy, so full of ingenuous unadulterated ecstasy.

It made his heart contract into a lump.

"Come on," Kaká said in  
Portuguese, still radiant, stretching out his hand and offering  
it to Cristiano.

And for some reason, in that confused moment,  
with the surf roaring in his head and the grass so squashed underneath  
him, it had seemed as if Kaká were smiling solely at _him_ ,  
as if it was because of _him_ that he looked so happy. Because  
of him, Cristiano.

Cristiano took the hand and let himself  
be pulled up. "Thanks", he'd said inanely, in Portuguese,  
trying not to sob out aloud. But the 'thanks' was already too  
much; he had to pout and blow his lips three or four times in  
quick succession to stop himself from breaking down all over again.

Later, he'd regretted not having said more,  
not having exploited the moment. It had been nice to speak Portuguese.  
And somehow it had been especially nice to speak Portuguese to  
someone from Brazil where nobody made fun of his Madeiran dialect,  
or so he imagined.

Much, much later, he'd lie awake in hotel  
rooms, eyes trained on the ceilings (stuccoed or not, artexed  
or not, chandeliered, light-bulbed, cobwebbed or not), and call  
to mind Kaká's wide smile and the strong sweaty warmth  
of his hand and the furry lilt of his vowels.

 

 

 

Lisbon in April had been a disaster.

Not the game. The game was just a friendly  
and fun. It was the aftermath that had been a disaster.

Initially, he had tried to get close to  
Kaká in the pre-match jostle. He'd worked up his nerve  
(he never normally needed nerves for this!) to clap Kaká  
on the back and to say, "Hi again", in a completely  
non-chalant fashion, or what he hoped would pass for such.

The addition of the simple 'again' had been  
enough to convulse his guts.

Kaká's dark eyes turned on him, smiling  
as ever, his eyebrows two arches along his brows. "Yeah,"  
he'd said, "hi", and the world had jolted in its gears.

But then: nothing. Kaká had disappeared  
with other people, they'd hardly encountered each other on the  
pitch, and afterwards, out of breath and out of nouse, Cristiano  
had said, "Want to do something later?" And as soon  
as it was out of his mouth, it sounded preposterous.

Also, completely impossible. He had only  
three days in Lisbon, and there were people to see and things  
to do; his sister had insisted on taking him out that very night.

Kaká had looked at him; it had been  
a strange look, a guarded look. "No, no," he'd said,  
"I can't." And indeed, he'd turned up at some do with  
his wife, his _wife_ , because he'd got married since the  
Champions League; there was a ring on his finger; he was brilliant  
and radiant, and Cristiano pouted in consternation at his hotel  
room mirror.

 

 

 

Best to forget this silliness. Still, there  
was no escape. Brazil was all over the TV programmes. Whenever  
Kaká was on screen, something churned in Cristiano's guts.

Kaká running. Kaká tackling.  
Kaká making a phenomenal run, accepting a pass, tapping  
it in. Boys jumping all over him, and he onto them.

He'd got a new haircut. Shorter; sharper.

Cristiano passed his hand over his own hair,  
over the front of his head.

Think only of the match ahead. Think not  
of what might be, could be, wouldn't ever be.

'Nothing will happen,' he told himself.  
'Nothing will happen at all.'

'If, however', he continued, on his bed  
in his room with the cloud cushions muffling his face, 'we were  
to play Brazil, just say, if.'

He could barely breathe with the thought.  
Or was that the goose-down filling of the pillows, choking him?

To play _Brazil_! To play the _world_!

And Kaká, like a dervish in midfield.

Cristiano sat up against the headboard.  
He turned on the remote. He zapped himself through to one of the  
porn channels. A blonde with curly hair and a tattoo above her  
coccyx was applying herself to the cock of an otherwise unseen  
man. She tucked her ringlets behind her ear to allow the camera  
access to the sight of her mouth around the man's penis, half-way  
down. There was a bulge in her cheek: the guy's glans.

Cristiano freed himself from his boxers;  
already, a moist spot had formed on the slitted front. He looked  
at the woman's mouth, and then, following a downwards pan, at  
her round tits, nipples soft and aureoles as big as saucers.

Just as he'd stroked himself to an acceptable  
hardness and was starting to descend into that land of not-quite-with-it,  
an explosion erupted, the windows stove in, and the carpet got  
covered in glass.

 

 

 

There was a cut on his elbow, that was all,  
and a nick above his pubis. Miraculously, he had escaped unscathed.  
The only thing that ached was his thigh, from where he'd fallen  
on it when he'd rolled off the bed in the direction of the wall,  
dick still in hand, instincts throbbing, and blood oozing from  
his arm. Warm air blew papers around the room, laundry order forms,  
hotel letter sheets. The curly-haired woman moaned incomprehensible  
syllables on the TV.

Security guards burst in; and in a nightmarish  
frenzy, Cristiano scrabbled round for his boxers.

They yelled at him in German; then, when  
he blinked at them in a daze, they switched to English. They paid  
no attention to the televisual blowjob.

In the coach, surrounded by hubbub, he started  
to shake.

Mobiles rang in a dozen different ring tones.  
He tried to remember which he had set his own phone to, and then  
discovered that he didn't even have his phone on him, only some  
random hotel bathrobe, his wallet, flip-flops over his socks and,  
for whatever inexplicable reason, a pack of mints.

Someone else passed him their own mobile,  
and he rang his mother. Her voice was preternaturally calm.

"I'm fine, mãe," he said  
to her in the voice he always used to his mother on the phone.  
"I'm perfectly safe. I have a scratch on my elbow. I'm match  
fit!"

He wished she were more hysterical. That  
would have given him the chance to act calm and cool. As it was,  
whatever he said, sounded in his own ears more hysterical than  
her unruffled intonation.

By the time they arrived at wherever they  
were being ferried to, the day was just losing its heat but the  
June sky was still luminous.

He couldn't remember the exact name of the  
town, something complicated and German. But it was Brazil's HQ,  
and that is where, by some insane law of chance, they had been  
taken.

And this was how, over a week before he  
had ever thought it likely, he ran into Kaká again.

Cristiano had barely entered the lobby,  
dazed, rubbing the band-aid on his elbow, rubbing the bandage  
on his thigh, rubbing his hair, when all of a sudden and seemingly  
out of nowhere, there was Kaká's face, centimetres away  
from his own.

Cristiano's shakes underwent a strange amplifying  
process, as if they were sound waves, dopplering in on themselves  
and intensifying his heart rate.

"You okay, mate?" said Kaká,  
in Portuguese.

And touched him on the arm.

"What?" said Cristiano.

Kaká peered at him, sunshine tripping  
off his skin.

"Come on up to my room," Kaká  
said, "while they sort all this out." "What?"  
Cristiano said again. "Come on up," said Kaká  
and tugged on his arm, "you can crash for a bit." "Where  
is my stuff?" Cristiano said, and Kaká: "They'll  
bring it, don't worry; you don't look too good."

"I'll be totally fine," Cristiano  
said, and that's what he'd said before the qualifier against Russia,  
hours after his father had died, and it had been, too. It had  
been absolutely totally fine.

He ended up in Kaká's room, anyway,  
because he seemed to have lost a will of his own. Kaká's  
hotel room was larger than his own room in Marienfeld had been,  
with antique furniture scattered about and pale paintings on the  
wall. The loo was on the other side, as was the bed, and there  
wasn't any glass all over the carpet.

"Here, lie down."

Cristiano sat down on the edge of the bed  
which was enormous and made up with some ruffle-hemmed counterpane.  
Miniature chocolates rested on the pillows. Cristiano was still  
clutching his pack of mints.

There was a TV in a pretend wooden cupboard  
opposite the bed. He wondered if Kaká had been watching  
porn, maybe even the selfsame channel, the one with the curly-haired  
blonde, and then he recalled that Kaká was _married_  
now, plus wasn't he religious or something, and maybe he didn't  
go in for that sort of thing, and now Cristiano's head was spinning  
around the room in an alarming fashion.

"You sure you're okay?"

"Just a bit dizzy," said Cristiano.

He was also still shaking. He was shaking  
so hard that the ruffles on the coverlet rustled.

"Look, you better lie down. You lie  
down and... and I'll see about your stuff. Here, um. You can have  
a T-shirt of mine, and some shorts."

Kaká's voice came to him through  
a thick haze. The voice seemed to be shaking, just like the ruffles  
but it was difficult to be sure.

When he woke up, it was evening. His pillow  
was moist, and Kaká's silhouette emerged from the bathroom.

 

 

 

"Hi," Kaká's voice said  
from inside the dark shadow of Kaká's face.

Cristiano blinked and struggled to lean  
up on his elbows.

"You probably want to know," said  
Kaká, "that they found out it wasn't terrorism or  
anything like that. It was just a bunch of out-of-control fans.  
They let off home-made fireworks."

"Oh," said Cristiano.

He remembered the glass flying across his  
room. His left arm gave a shiver.

"I'm fine," he said. "I'll  
be totally fine. I've got the game coming up."

Kaká came over to the bed and crouched  
down on the carpet. His teeth flashed a smile in the semi-dusk.  
"You'll be ...," he said.

And Cristiano wasn't quite sure what Kaká  
had said because Kaká had used a verb that he didn't recognise,  
and then the slithers of Kaká's final consonants and the  
lazy drawl of Kaká's vowels distracted him, and the brilliance  
of Kaká's smile, and without forethought he lifted his  
hand,

and just in time said, "Sharp new haircut,"

and ruffled Kaká's hair as he might  
ruffle anybody's hair. As he had his own hair ruffled ten times  
a match.

"Sharp?" Kaká said, as  
if _he_ didn't know _that_ word. His voice quaked on  
the still air.

The power of words failed Cristiano after  
that. Helplessly, he ruffled Kaká's hair again until a  
strange tenderness crept up out of his heart along his shoulder  
into his arm and hand. His movements slowed down, and before he  
could stop himself, his fingers were stroking through Kaká's  
hair with an almost painful gentleness.

Kaká's skull was hard against his  
palm. The top of his ear bent slightly under the pressure of Cristiano's  
little finger. His thumb slid along the hairline above Kaká's  
left temple, his fingers combed the hair up and away from Kaká's  
forehead.

And Kaká let him.

That was the wonder of it: Kaká crouched  
there motionless and let him do it, with an unreadable expression  
on his face and his eyes dark and dewy.

Cristiano continued stroking Kaká's  
hair which was thick and a little oily at the roots, and after  
a while, he slipped his hand down from the hairline, and now it  
was actually off Kaká's hair altogether. His hand cupped  
the side of Kaká's face, his thumb against the bony ridge  
on the outside of Kaká's left eye, his palm on Kaká's  
cheek, his fingers crawling along the top of Kaká's ear,  
his breath streaming in and out of his open throat in a trance.

And then it was too much. He had to do something  
to break the spell. Quick as a kick, Cristiano rose up further  
on his left elbow, using the hand against Kaká's head for  
leverage, nearly toppled Kaká in the process but managed  
to steady him and himself, and to pull himself across the edge  
of the bed to press a kiss onto the top of Kaká's forehead.

That seemed almost not out of the ordinary.

Almost. Almost like the sort of kiss he  
might have planted on anybody's forehead, any team mate's head,  
done a hundred times before.

But then, he didn't know how or wherefore,  
if either his mouth slipped or, more dizzyingly, Kaká had  
lifted his head deliberately -- but suddenly, he found his mouth  
no longer pressed to Kaká's forehead but to Kaká's  
eyebrow, and then his mouth slipped further down, onto the closed  
lid over Kaká's left eyeball. His own eyes were closed;  
he was proceeding blindly, by touch only, still further, against  
the side of Kaká's nose, and in the split second before  
it happened he could predict where his mouth would land next.

He could see the next move in slow motion,  
like a glass of milk falling, suspended in mid-air and inevitably  
tumbling and shattering to pieces on the ground.

Inexorably, in slowest motion, his mouth  
landed on Kaká's mouth, and Kaká's mouth opened  
to receive him.

All Cristiano could do was to hold on with  
his hand to the life buoy of Kaká's face and stay electrically  
still.

It was Kaká who moved, Kaká  
who welcomed him in.

For one chaotic, delirious moment, Kaká's  
hot wild tongue was in Cristiano's mouth, and Cristiano was at  
sea.

 

 

"No," he said, and pushed Kaká  
away. "Yes. Sorry. I mean..."

Kaká fell back into a seated position  
on the carpet. He had the strangest look on his face, a look of  
reckless determination.

It was only when Kaká's hand dropped  
away that Cristiano realised that his wrist had been gripped in  
Kaká's fist.

Kaká backed off. Cristiano could  
hear his heavy breathing.

Then Kaká was up. He mumbled something  
incoherent. The bathroom door clacked shut behind him.

 

 

 

Cristiano did not have a shred of an idea  
what to do next.

He lay on Kaká's hotel bed, with  
Kaká's T-shirt damp against his armpits, with the moisture  
of Kaká's lips still on his own, and he listened to the  
sounds of Kaká in the bathroom.

At first, there was no sound.

Then water came on, the shower, the squeak  
of bare feet in a plastic tub.

'Nothing has happened', Cristiano told himself.  
'Nothing has happened at all.'

Mellow air wavered around the antique side  
tables and the upholstered chairs with curlicue legs. The windows  
were open; birds tweeted.

In the bathroom, the shower stopped.

A short silence ensued. Then there was the  
clink of glass against enamel and the sound of items being moved  
about.

Cristiano sat up and ran his hand over his  
hair.

Something crashed in the bathroom, a bang  
against the tiles.

Cristiano swung his legs over the side of  
the bed. His eyes felt fuzzy.

Outside the windows, the midsummer night  
waned with aching slowness. Inside the room, the furniture refused  
to yield up its shadows.

The bathroom door opened.

Kaká stood there, outlined against  
the yellow rectangle. He wore a white singlet and white briefs.  
His underclothes were dazzling against his milk-tea complexion.

"Look," Cristiano said, stood  
up and stumbled.

"You can stay here, mate," Kaká  
said, in a voice full of some sort of resolution.

He walked across to the wardrobe, pulled  
out a drawer, didn't look at Cristiano, walked to the window,  
fiddled with the curtain rod, said things that Cristiano didn't  
quite catch because there was a roaring in his ears, as if he  
were in a packed stadium, just after the national anthems.

And the entire match was still before him,  
to be played.

"What?" he said blankly. He tried  
to focus.

"Reception," said Kaká.  
"Your stuff is at reception. They didn't know what to pack  
so they brought the lot. You can pick up a key, and tomorrow apparently,  
you can go back to your own hotel; it's all being fixed up. Oh,  
and your, um, mother rang." He used an odd word for 'mother'.  
"And..." He drew the curtains half-way, then tugged  
them open again with the rod. "...you can still crash here.

If you want."

'Nothing is happening', Cristiano told himself.

Out loud, his voice said, without any conscious  
input of his brain, "But where will you sleep?"

It was a big room but there was no second  
bed.

"Oh," said Kaká. He coughed.  
"There." He pointed to the right-hand side of the bed,  
the side unmussed by Cristiano's body. "Bed's big..."  
He cleared his throat. "...big enough for. For two. Or four."

A fly bashed its head against the open window  
pane. There was no spider web in the corner.

"I need the loo," Cristiano said  
quickly.

In the bathroom, he stared at himself in  
the mirror. There was a red smudge on each of his cheeks. His  
eyelids looked swollen.

His lips looked kissed.

Kaká's toothbrush was propped inside  
a glass with the hotel's logo etched into its side. The bristles  
were wet.

Cristiano unwrapped the hotel's complimentary  
toothbrush, squeezed out the hotel's complimentary herbal toothpaste  
from its tiny tube, and brushed his teeth very fast.

He rinsed. He knocked the toothbrush dry  
against the tap and placed it in the glass, next to Kaká's.

He took the toothbrush out again and laid  
it on the basin countertop.

He peed, standing up, shook himself dry,  
flushed the loo, then, for no discernible reason, got a wad of  
loo paper, moistened it, and washed himself.

He hoicked up his leg and inspected his  
thigh. He took off his socks, washed his feet, chose an unused  
face towel, dried his feet, and dropped his socks onto the bathroom  
mat.

He pulled a grinning grimace in the mirror.

The band-aid dangled by one end from his  
elbow; he pulled it off and left it on the countertop.

Then he ran his finger over the Paco Rabanne  
aftershave next to the basin, and over the electric shaver and  
the pack of aspirins and the floss and the Colgate tube, squeezed  
with its end neatly rolled up into a butterfly proboscis.

There wasn't much here. Cristiano himself  
always brought a tonne of stuff. He wondered where it had all  
got to, his gels and his lotions and his Q-tips and his nail file  
and his comb and his scalp brush and his necklaces and his rings,  
stuffed into the netted part of his cosmetics bag, the kind with  
a hanger that he'd fixed to the bathroom door of his own hotel  
and that was now probably downstairs at reception, packed any  
which way.

His condoms, too. Packed by strangers.

He dabbed a drop of Paco Rabanne onto his  
jugular but he actually didn't like Paco Rabanne; it made his  
nose seize up.

He washed it off again.

Inexplicably, he dabbed a drop into the  
crease of his crotch.

Then he turned off the light, opened the  
door, and prepared himself to say, 'Thanks for the offer and all  
but I'd better be off, then; bye and see ya.'

In the room, Kaká was a hump under  
the right-hand bedclothes, and Cristiano never said his prepared  
sentence.

 

 

 

Instead, he walked, as if through crowded  
water, to the bed. He took off his necklace and curled it up on  
the night stand. He took off Kaká's shorts and Kaká's  
T-shirt and let them crumple to the floor.

He paused.

He put Kaká's T-shirt back on again.

He lifted the billowing German duvet; it  
crackled crisply. He slid underneath, in his boxers and in Kaká's  
T-shirt, trying not to make a sound over the pounding of his heartbeat.

"I rang reception," said Kaká,  
and Cristiano jumped. "Your bags are in Room 31."

"Right," said Cristiano. 'I'll  
be off to Room 31, then.' But that last part was said only in  
his head.

The mattress pressed against his back. It  
slanted towards the middle. A hectare of sheet stretched between  
him and Kaká.

Then, they both spoke at the same time.  
"About the thing..." Kaká said, and "Nothing  
happened," Cristiano said.

The bed trembled. Or was that just his voice?

Kaká shifted over on his own side  
of the mattress.

He was kilometres away on the window-side  
of the bed.

"It's just," Kaká said,  
"because of what we're going to do."

"Why?" said Cristiano. "What?"  
The blood roared through his eardrums. "What are we going  
to do?" He tried for banter mode but it came out wrong; it  
came out all breathless.

Kaká rolled over, traversed the kilometres,  
took Cristiano's face in one hand and kissed him with a fierce  
ruthlessness that caught Cristiano entirely off guard.

'Nothing's happening', his brain flashed  
at him but his tongue knew otherwise, and so did his lips, even  
as Kaká plunged into his mouth with that reckless determination,  
mixed in with such an innocent tenderness that it was like a sobbing  
in Cristiano's heart.

Cristiano's own mouth opened up to this  
kiss in a startled hiccup, and then sank into the rhythm of it  
as into a dream.

Cristiano never normally kissed like this.  
He liked to kiss quickly, urgently, deeply, taking what he wanted,  
not tasting what was offered. He wasn't usually so helpless, helpless  
to do much beyond drinking at the fount of Kaká's mouth,  
beyond producing involuntary moans from the back of his throat,  
deep hums of mindless pleasure and undefined need.

How long they remained like this, he couldn't  
tell. At one point, Kaká had his fingers round Cristiano's  
earring and gently tugged, and the tiny pinprick of pain sent  
jolts into Cristiano's loins. Then he had his own hand on the  
back of Kaká's head, in that thick hair, and then on the  
back of Kaká's neck, warm and softly fuzzed, and then on  
the broad shoulder strap of Kaká's singlet, and then under  
the shoulder strap, his whole hand curving round Kaká's  
round shoulder.

And then Kaká made a noise, and Cristiano,  
in a crazed swoon, rolled him over and rolled right on top of  
him, against all of Kaká's sweet hard body.

They both moaned in unison. Their bodies  
moved against and with each other. Cristiano's thigh didn't hurt  
at all.

Nothing was no longer happening. Kaká's  
kisses, and his movements, and skin on skin, cotton against cotton:  
it was all happening; all happening in one glorious, turbulent  
swoop.

Cristiano's mind had gone into lockdown  
but his body knew what to do. His hands had wills of their own,  
as did his legs, slung along Kaká's hips, and his tongue  
had long ago abandoned itself to the white-water rush of desire.

They didn't say a word to each other. They  
didn't open their eyes. They breathed sighs into each other's  
open mouths.

Kaká put his hand on the front of  
Cristiano's boxers, and Cristiano exhaled all the air in his lungs  
in one long loud gasp.

They were already into a rhythm by then;  
they didn't have to break stride; they slipped out of underpants  
and pressed into each other. Cristiano lost his hold of Kaká's  
mouth and found himself gulping into Kaká's neck, Kaká's  
hair against his temple and Paco Rabanne in his nostrils, Kaká's  
salty skin on his tongue and Kaká's warm flesh under his  
teeth.

Kaká's hot hand was around Cristiano's  
cock. Anything and everything seemed possible so that it was almost  
no surprise to thrust into that hand which was a large hand, and  
strong on Cristiano's cock, defiant and at the same time tentative.  
The whole mix of timidity and determination, of the stubborn down  
and up of Kaká's hand and then the hitch of hesitation  
at the tip, drove Cristiano into a state of disorientation, and  
finally into a bewildered storm of an orgasm.

"God," he moaned, "oh God.  
Oh Jesus."

It was like coming up through a cloud of  
sand and seaweed, after having been dumped by an Atlantic breaker,  
coughing up salt and tumbling into the sunlight.

There he coasted for a while, in that still  
sunlit space, catching his breath.

He wondered where his come had gone, and  
then he became aware of Kaká's hand on his softened dick,  
and of the smell of aftershave, and of the beat of Kaká's  
heart in the pulse of his neck. Reality flooded back; it had acute  
angles and precise contours.

He opened his eyes onto the dusky room.

"Hang on," whispered Kaká.  
"Hang on."

Their limbs disentangled. Kaká did  
something at the side of the bed, rummaged around in the bedclothes,  
then produced his discarded white briefs and spread them across  
the tip of Cristiano's dick.

Cristiano dabbed at himself. He focused  
on the wiping so that he wouldn't have to pay attention to all  
those harsh lines and all those detailed edges. But these were  
Kaká's underclothes, and he was smearing his cooling jism  
into the place where Kaká's cock usually nestled, and this  
was making Cristiano feel giddy.

He didn't dare look up at Kaká but  
then he did.

Kaká's face wore an open look of  
eager surprise.

Cristiano's veins were frozen by that look.

"Here," Cristiano said; just managed  
to say. "Wait."

The angles in Kaká's face shimmered  
across his emphatic eyebrows.

Impelled perhaps by the hazy glow of his  
own loins or by some other force, the force that had got him into  
this situation to begin with, Cristiano pressed his mouth to the  
cotton-clad chest of Kaká while his fingers slipped in  
under the hem and rolled the singlet up until it met his own chin.

The muscles under Cristiano's hand dithered  
and tautened.

He transferred his mouth to skin; this was  
skin without Paco Rabanne; this was raw Kaká.

Much as his lips had earlier travelled from  
Kaká's forehead to Kaká's mouth, so they now travelled  
from Kaká's lower ribs across Kaká's solar plexus,  
paused at the hollow dell of Kaká's navel, burrowed through  
a thick thatch of springy curls. He closed his eyes because he  
couldn't bear looking. Seeing was too much; seeing was overwhelming.

He closed his eyes and made his way by touch,  
using his tongue as a guide. Curls, skin, sweat, and then the  
smooth, impossible muscle of Kaká's cock.

He rested his lips crosswise on Kaká's  
shaft. Under his right palm, he felt the tense vibration of Kaká's  
diaphragm. His nostrils were full of the musky tang of crotch:  
essence of Kaká.

His thoughts shaped themselves around the  
outlined reality of Kaká's cock.

But then Kaká let out a tempestuous  
gasp, and reality irised in and whited out.

Cristiano's tongue took on a life of its  
own, as if it had always known how to do this. As if it had always  
known how to pleasure Kaká's cock, how to lick its shaft,  
how to lose itself in the length and breadth of Kaká.

He rubbed his lips through his own slick  
spit, back and forth in a lateral dance, curving his mouth around  
his teeth. Kaká's diaphragm shuddered in time with Cristiano's  
movements; it was a hypnotic rhythm, an elated lost orbit.

Wild thoughts swarmed through Cristiano's  
baffled mind. Thoughts of clutching Kaká's buttocks, cupping  
Kaká's balls, pressing his thumb against the base of Kaká's  
scrotum, doing more, doing madly unimaginable things. Cristiano  
swam on the tide of Kaká's cock, in that space slithering  
with saliva, and anything else was impossible.

 _  
This  
_  
was  
impossible. Impossible that he should be here, plying his tongue  
on Kaká's nakedness, with his own sated dick burrowing  
into the damp sheets.

It wasn't happening. Mightn't, couldn't,  
wouldn't ever happen.

"God," he moaned; he couldn't  
help it.

It came out "mm" against Kaká's  
bergamot cock.

Impossible, too, that he should be allowed  
to continue with it, that Kaká let him do this, had practically  
invited him to do it.

With his hands still immobile on Kaká's  
skin, Cristiano, without stopping for thought, grabbed the tip  
of Kaká's cock in his open-lipped mouth.

It tasted of skin and crotch sweat.

He curled his tongue around the edge of  
Kaká's glans. He jigged his mouth around the very top of  
Kaká's cock. The very top of his own head threatened to  
fly off; clouds and sparks vied for dominance; tumult invaded  
the recesses of his mind.

Kaká's diaphragm hummed under his  
moist palm. The ragged breaths drawn from Kaká's lungs  
syncopated with the knock of heartbeats in Cristiano's own bloodstream:  
Kaká's unruly pulse in Cristiano's ear, pressed into Kaká's  
belly; and Cristiano's own raging heart.

A siren wailed somewhere in the balmy distance.  
The curtains whispered in the breeze.

Kaká gasped brokenly; his frame shuddered,  
then stiffened; Cristiano snatched his mouth up and pressed it,  
wet-tongued, to Kaká's shaft as he watched, in cross-eyed  
close-up, the blur of off-white semen creaming into the dip of  
Kaká's navel.

He took his mouth away.

Because he had no idea what to do next,  
he put his mouth back on Kaká's cock.

Kaká was still large but more malleable;  
long breaths made his belly rise and fall.

And suddenly, Kaká started to shake.  
His diaphragm and his jism-filled navel and his hips and his chest,  
all juddered in staccato spasms.

It took Cristiano several split seconds  
to realise that Kaká was shaking with laughter.

Cristiano looked up. Kaká had his  
head pressed back against the mattress, next to the dislodged  
pillow, and was laughing a deep-throated, low and chuckling laugh.

"What?" Cristiano said, panic  
nipping at his nerves. "What?"

But Kaká's face was heedless, his  
eyebrows guileless, his teeth radiant. He looked happy, and pleased  
with himself. He looked like someone who had managed to pull something  
off.

"What?" said Cristiano again,  
with less verve.

In the end, Kaká's laugh was infectious.  
Cristiano let out a short confused laugh himself, and this seemed  
to spin Kaká into further peals which, in turn, opened  
a valve in the depths of Cristiano so that he sat up, sheets and  
duvet and clothes crumpling around him, counterpane rustling,  
and laughed back, a bit cautiously.

At which Kaká scrambled into a sitting  
position, grabbed hold of both Cristiano's ears and imprinted  
a rough, sloppy kiss on each of his cheeks.

Cristiano was used to this; he was used  
to getting rough, sloppy kisses on his cheeks. Rough, sloppy kisses  
happened all the time.

Mirth lived just below the surface.

So there they were, two guys on a bed, chuckling,  
batting at each other's hands, two guys with sticky skin and limp  
dicks, slapping one another on the knee and arm, cuffing one another  
round the back of the head.

"Okay, okay, wait," said Kaká,  
catching his breath; and "you've got to wipe yourself, look  
at you", said Cristiano, roses on his cheeks; and "ah,  
who cares", said Kaká and wiped at his belly with  
the hem of his white singlet, and then went "eew" as  
the vest snapped back into position around his ribs. Cristiano  
pulled at it and pulled it off, tugged awkwardly around Kaká's  
ears, left Kaká's hair standing up oddly.

"Sharp haircut," Cristiano said  
again, for something to say and because the sight of Kaká's  
mussed hair made the laughter fizz out inside his guts.

"Yeah," said Kaká and smiled  
and looked directly at Cristiano who could not tell whether the  
'yeah' was by way of affirmation of the compliment, or directed  
at some other, more general state of affairs.

Cristiano held Kaká's gaze, all the  
while his stomach effervescent.

Kaká ducked his head and glanced  
away.

Cristiano was overcome by another assault  
of tenderness. He put his hand on Kaká's wrist, then took  
it away again. He looked at his own hands, he put a finger on  
his lips -- the lips that had touched Kaká's _cock_  
\--, he looked again at Kaká's averted eyes, the pupils  
dark underneath lowered lashes.

He studied his hands again and said, "Kaká."

It occurred to him that he barely knew this  
boy. Kaká's T-shirt clung to his own chest.

He added, "Can I call you something  
else, actually?" Thinking, 'The whole world calls you Kaká.'  
He didn't want to be the whole world.

"What do they call you?" Kaká  
asked the duvet. "Cristiano? Cris?" His voice was suddenly  
full of smoke and unspoken moans.

"Or Ronnie," said Cristiano. "Some  
call me Ronnie."

"Ronnie?" Kaká pronounced  
it 'Honnie'.

"We share a surname." Cristiano  
offered this on a tenterhook.

"Yeah," said Kaká again,  
lifted his head and gave Cristiano a brilliant smile, bold and  
shy all at once.

An unknown emotion flooded the lower regions  
of Cristiano's insides. Something impelled him forwards; he pressed  
his lips to Kaká's smiling face, to the corners of the  
smile; he held his lips there until he'd kissed the smile away.

"Senhor Leite", Cristiano murmured.

"That's daft," said Kaká's  
smoky voice, then dropped to a rumble so low it was barely audible  
over the sighing of the moonlit wind: "But I like the way  
you say it."

Cristiano found himself unable to shift  
his lips from Kaká's waned smile.

"Senhor Leite," Kaká imitated  
his pronunciation. Or tried to; it still sounded like a laid-back  
drawl. "You're so peninsular."

"Not peninsular", mumbled Cristiano  
into Kaká's skin. "Insular."

And maybe it was Cristiano's tongue on the  
down of Kaká's cheek that made Kaká's voice stumble  
when he replied, "Insular?"

"Madeira," said Cristiano. And  
suddenly, with conviction, "But you knew that."

"Yeah," said Kaká, and  
Cristiano slipped his mouth leftwards, a tiny nudge of a movement,  
and Kaká's hand was hard on Cristiano's damp nape.

\-----

THE END.  
All original parts of this story © to Lobelia. Posted to  
LJ 3 July 2006.

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback:  
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url of this page: http://blithesea.net/lobelia/halftime.html

Back to [Lobelia's stories](fics.html).

\----  
More Author's Notes and Pics:

Pics of [Sporthotel  
Klosterpforte, in Marienfeld, near Gütersloh](http://klosterpforte.de/html/sporthotel/index.htm#) (abode of  
Portugal squad)

Pics of [Kempinski  
Hotel Falkenstein, in Königstein im Taunus, near Frankfurt  
am Main ](http://www.kempinski-falkenstein.com/en/rooms/index.htm?item_id=6272), (abode of Brazil squad)

[  
Manchester United/AC Milan, 0:1, Feb. 2005  
](http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport1/hi/football/europe/4281723.stm)  
(I have no idea whether Cristiano Ronaldo wept.)  


[  
The pre-World Cup friendly Portugal/Brazil in Lisbon,  
April 2002  
](http://www.the-news.net/cgi-bin/searcharticles.pl?query=634&page=2)  
. Yup, unfortunately I  
got the date for this one wrong, *g*, so it's pure non-canon.  


Info on the boys from [English  
Wikipedia (Kaka)](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kak%C3%A1) and [English  
Wikipedia (Cristiano Ronaldo)](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cristiano_Ronaldo).

Random inspirational sites on Brazilian  
Portuguese, European (or peninsular) Portuguese and Argentinian  
Spanish [here](http://www.sonia-portuguese.com/text/brazport.htm%20)  
and [here](http://alteredargentina.blogspot.com/2005/07/argentina-vs-brazil.html).  


Cristiano Ronaldo:

  
  


 

Kaká:

  
  



End file.
